


naptime

by sir yes sir (toomanyfandomsforoneusername)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alcohol, Book compliant, Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk confessions, Fluff, I might update, M/M, Other, Series Compliant, a few chapters, crowley loves zira's tummy, he won't tell him that tho, i might not, idk i made this first chapter a while ago and now im just tired, im drunk!, just like, lotta fluff, mainly fluff, not super slow but like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanyfandomsforoneusername/pseuds/sir%20yes%20sir
Summary: it's cute i think. it's just a first draft but i like it! i think i did a nice job.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 5





	naptime

The human body's digestive system is a necessary function in breaking down food particles into caloric energy. These ingested "calories" are then burned by the body's metabolic processes to help maintain homeostasis. Thus leaving the excess calories to be converted into fat molecules, which are then stored as reserve energy.

  
Angels and demons draw from different energy sources (God and Satan, respectively) than humans, and therefore have no need for calories, and, as such, food. This distinction helps us to understand why supernatural entities such as Aziraphale and Crowley are lacking digestive systems of their own. It is also important to note that, there being no heavenly or hellish intestinal process, there is absolutely nothing to convert the food enzymes to lipids, proteins, or carbohydrates. Anything that enters the body of an angel, demon, or the like simply dissolves, having no obligation to be there. This is why when the archangel Gabriel told Aziraphale to "lose the gut", he didn't just miracle it away. The only logical explanation for the angel to have even the slightest bit of chub was that he wanted it there.

  
Aziraphale did like his appearance. He'd carefully designed and constructed his body himself, some 6000 years ago. He didn't really mind whether or not the excess skin was there, he was really alright either way. But he did choose to keep it there, and while it was partly out of humans' tendency to trust less intimidating people, Aziraphale's main interest in the matter sprouted from the fact that the demon Anthony J. Crowley rather liked it.

  
Aziraphale would never admit that, of course. Most likely because he didn't even know it yet himself. Sure it was there, underneath, but his subconscious brain had figured it out several thousand years before his conscious mind. And if Aziraphale wouldn't admit it, it would take the end of the world for Crowley to confess that he often took naps on the angel's soft thighs, snuggled underneath a book. Luckily for them both, the end of the world had already failed to happen.

  
The two were in Aziraphale's flat above the bookshop, with four and a half empty bottles of Mouton Rothschild '59 in front of them.

"Ssssooo, basically, what I'm sssayin' is," Crowley slurred. "is that potatoes. po tay toes. are actually the coolessst veggietable on the puh-lanet!"

Hmm." Aziraphale hadn't heard. He was thinking about marshmallows.

  
Crowley continued. "I'd have one, a potato plant, in my 'ouse, but the other plantsss can't know I'm cheating on them. Y'ssee. All— all you got to do is stick a potato in the ground. And then. More potatoes!"

  
Aziraphale considered this. "Yeah. Yeah but, d'you remember Ireland, 1845? Gone, they were, the potatoes.” He paused. “Wazzat you?"

  
"Thought that was yoursss." Crowley was getting more and more excited about his favorite starchy vegetable. "And there's sssso many different ways to cook them! You could 'ave 'em baked! Make crisssssps, or baked sskins, or. Or chips!"

  
"Mmm. Chips," Aziraphale agreed.

  
They sat there, in the flat, absolutely shitfaced, talking about potatoes and their various functions for the next two and a half hours. Aziraphale had fallen asleep nearly fifteen minutes since, but Crowley had rambled on as though he hadn't noticed.

  
"...and tha's jus' a few of the things you could do with a half a pound of salmon!" Crowley finished. He turned to his angel. "You’re sssleeping, aren’t you?"

  
When he got no reply, Crowley situated himself on the sofa so that he leaned up against the motionless principality, who was now faintly snoring.

  
“That’ssssss. Good. Because I’ve got to tell you something important,” Crowley managed to spit out. “I love you. So. Much.”

  
Having nearly toppled over the couch, Crowley steadied himself back onto Aziraphale’s lap. It was really a miracle that Aziraphale hadn’t yet woken up.

  
"Y'know, Aziraphale," whined the demon. "I think—"

  
Crowley belched.

  
"I think 'm'a little drunk."

He passed out on Aziraphale's stomach.


End file.
